The Book of Cheng
by taj.h
Summary: A hopefully complex story involving the dead composer Glazunov, a book of great power, and a group of bandos.
1. Introduction

The Book of Cheng  
  
The Book of Cheng is no ordinary book. Within its pages of supposed nonsense, there are a few virtues that hold true to this day. For instance, the Book of Cheng predicted the election of Bush. In Prophecies 14.2.6.4, it quotes, "Sometime in the future, maybe soon or maybe much later, a man whose name resembles a plant shall gain some sort of high position in which he shall rule." Even Nostradamus couldn't come close to such accurate foresight. The Book of Cheng also correctly described World War II many many days after it took place. In Hindsight 248.641.1834, it describes, "A man whose name starts with a letter of the alphabet and has a whole number of letters shall rise to power and cause havoc among many people whose names have been forgotten." Such valuable hindsight has not been matched in quality even today. The greatest mystery surrounding the Book of Cheng is not its contents, but it very existence. The original Book of Cheng was found in Russia, in the first Russian hotel on a bathroom sink next to many stolen bars of soap. The book was given to a German museum, where it set out to translate the 'holy' book. The problem with translating the Book of Cheng is that it is written completely in musical notes. It took years for the scientists to realize that the book was more than just another opera of sorts. After a series of computer generated algorithms and what-not, the first translated Book of Cheng was complete. It was never given much thought after that due to its three-hundred page description of soap, and its one-hundred page story of the eve of the fifth of April, which included seagulls and muffins. However, this Book holds within it dark, secret powers that have been carefully hidden from the world. Until today, that is... 


	2. Glazunov

1934-  
  
Piles of golden brown manuscript were evenly scattered around a dark marble floor in a very intricate pattern of chaos. A rosewood table and chair were centered in the tiny ill lit room. Seated atop of this chair was a heavy set man around his sixties. His name was Alexandr Konstantinovich Glazunov, famous composer and not-so-famous prophet and mage, and he was writing his saxophone concerto (op. 109A, for anyone who cares). He was angry. No, he was very angry. It was his twenty first attempt at this piece, and he was still failing. Some might say he had writers block (or to be more accurate, composer's block). But to him, he had very carefully fallen off of the composer's truck and crawled his way into Afghanistan. It was bad. Not nearly as bad as the time he burnt his op. 19 eating sausage on his way to the publisher, but it was still pretty bad. The thing with Glazunov is that he likes to make things terribly difficult for himself. He had constructed a new language with his music, in which the notes represent different letters of the alphabet. And he insisted that his music read something when letters were assigned to them. For instance, his op. 18, Mazurka in G major for orchestra, was actually a recipe for a mean chicken noodle soup. And his op. 86, Russian Fantasy in A major for balalaika-orchestra, explained how to surgically remove a gull-bladder from a person with diabetes.  
  
"Hot damn, I've got it!" exclaimed Glazunov.  
  
He began to furiously draw little black dots on the yellow paper, carefully spelling out, "Incredible Power." It was followed by, "How to achieve it by continuous never-ending playing of the alto saxophone." Glazunov worked the rest of the night, finishing early the next morning around 3:34 am. He went to his cupboard and took out a greenish flubber like substance, and, with a quick flick of his wrist and a twisting motion in his neck, applied a drop to the manuscript. The paper hummed a little, got a little hot, then gave out in a wisp of nitrous oxide.  
  
"Sweet," declared Glazunov.  
  
He was done. He immediately sent his latest work out to the publishers, who distributed the 'pamphlet' on immense power across the globe.  
  
Ever since, the world went haywire. 


	3. Jacob

2004 –  
  
"SHIZNEZ," swore Jacob as he pulled out of the parking lot. He had just run over the curb, creating a loud screeching sound and many stares. He was not used to driving his new car, a beautiful 1990 Ford Escort, and especially had difficulty turning the broken steering wheel.  
  
"I really shouldn't be driving in this old piece of crap," announced Jacob, to no one in particular, "What I need is a Jaguar of some sorts. It might work a bit better."  
  
Of course, his parents would never buy him a jaguar. They thought it would be best for their son to stay away from wild animals. "Never jump on the back of something without a saddle," they would always say.  
  
Jacob clanked his way down Long Lake Road to his house, an old yellow and purple ranch with two windows. He stopped the car (by hitting the dashboard) and climbed out through the hole in the roof.  
  
"Man, what would I do without a sunroof," he rhetorically asked.  
  
Jacob waggled up his driveway and up to his front door, where he pushed on the tiny red "push me" button. It gave out a loud honking sound, to which a rather large man and a rather small woman appeared to answer it.  
  
"Oh, Jacob, sweety, you're home!" exclaimed Mrs. Hendre, obviously excited.  
  
"He's always home, what more do you want?" stated Mr. Hendre.  
  
"Yeah, but today is different!" explained Mrs. Hendre.  
  
"How so?" asked Mr. Hendre.  
  
"Because today is a whole different tomorrow!" finished Mrs. Hendre, confusing both father and son.  
  
A brief pause circulated the doorway as Mrs. Hendre skipped away to the family room.  
  
"Get inside," ordered Mr. Hendre.  
  
Jacob trotted his way up to his room and promptly sat down at the computer screen. He turned his old box on and took out his summer school homework. Just then, and no later, the telephone rang.  
  
"Hello?" Jacob monotonously asked.  
  
"Hey, Jacob, it's Chris," replied the telephone. "Chris who?" Jacob asked.  
  
"Chris Cheng," replied Chris, rather loudly.  
  
"Oh. Well, what do you want?" asked Jacob.  
  
"I was just wondering if you would like to come over and practice our instruments," answered Cheng.  
  
"Get lost Cheng," proposed Jacob as he hung up the phone.  
  
Jacob looked at his clarinet.  
  
"Maybe I should practice," thought Jacob.  
  
He then forcefully decided against it. He had never really practiced anyways. Being a clarinetist, not much was expected from him. He somehow managed to squirm his way into the symphonic band, at which point he came to the conclusion that practicing was overrated.  
  
"And besides," he reasoned, "it is the middle of summer and I have quite a long time before chair placements and whatnot."  
  
Jacob spent the next few hours completing homework, chatting online, and running errands for his delusional mother. He looked up at the clock.  
  
"Oh crap, sectionals!" realized Jacob.  
  
Jacob hated his sectionals. Crazed and awful things always happened at them. This one was to be no exception.  
  
[yeah, this chapter is horrible, but I needed someway to introduce my main character. Hang in there, I promise ill give you some better material next time. I've always hated the expositions, but they are needed. Just to make it clear, Jacob does not exist in our school. I made him up and added him in with the rest of our real band, so all personalities and actions done by him are exclusively fake.] 


	4. Cheng

Chris Cheng was at home. Yes, Chris Cheng was at home as usual, practicing his favorite saxophone literature, the Concerto by Glazunov. He felt great when he played it; it often gave him the sensation of placing ice cubes on his eyelids while drinking hot cocoa.  
  
"I should give Jacob a call," he thought.  
  
The call, however, was very unsuccessful. It ended with Jacob promptly hanging up the phone.  
  
"Damn. I hate it when people do that," said Chris, aloud.  
  
Many people had been hanging up on him lately. His phone conversations often started with a "Hey" and quickly ended with a "Get lost". He could never understand why they were so reluctant to talk to him, especially when he felt like opening up. He suddenly became depressed, and decided he should play his concerto some more. He started his favorite passage again, adding his personal touch to it. His fingers moved violently up and down the pearly keys, dancing in harmony with the repeated lashing of his tongue. When he finally finished, he felt much better than when he started. He decided he should play it once more, just to relieve some of the stress. He started again, increasing the speed and volume with which he played. His body became tense and crunched; he was shaped into odd positions to achieve maximum performance. Chris Cheng repeated this passage several times in this crazed manner, increasing tempo and volume with each attempt. He was now becoming addicted. He felt the need to play it just one more time. With every repetition, his addiction grew worse. Something was happening to him. He body arched more, his chest expanded more; he looked much like a cat that was scared out of its wits. His mind seemed to stop thinking. He was playing the passage involuntarily. Chris Cheng tried to stop, he tried to gain control, but it was no use. His consciousness slowly slipped away, dropping in a pool of eternal darkness. A sharp pain entered his skull as the room seemed to shrink in size. The walls and ceilings ("ceilings?" he thought, "how is that possible?") moved towards him, causing him to scrunch even more. Chris Cheng, or his body, rather, continued playing in its violent manner, never-ending, not even stopping for air. The blackness slowly enveloped the room and entered his brain. Chris Cheng fell to the floor, completely unconscious.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
Jacob was in heaven. His sectional with Jean Junior started nicely, but soon turned into a barbarous clarinet throwing contest in which Jean would run around madly trying to prevent the destruction of instruments and Max Eddy would run around madly handing nearly broken clarinets to eager spear-throwers.  
  
"C'mon, use more arm when you throw the damn thing," explained Max to a hesitant freshman, "it's just like the Olympics. You want to do well at the Olympics, don't you? Here comes the gold medal!"  
  
"Max, what ever happened to graduating? Aren't you supposed to be in a college somewhere in the middle of nowhere studying?" asked Jean, obviously annoyed.  
  
Max consented and slowly brought the savages to their chief. Jacob was among these brutes, carefully harboring his prized possession. He sat next to another junior and carefully listened to Jean give her speech about the hazards of instrument throwing. She covered key aspects such as the inability to play the instrument afterwards, lack of insurance coverage for intentional damage, and etc.  
  
"Yes, but we don't mean to break them when we throw them," questioned Max. "Why would we? We couldn't throw broken ones; they don't fly as far. And besides, how are we supposed to know that they would break? They've survived Bagel Ball, haven't they?"  
  
A loud murmur of approval elevated from the group.  
  
"Actually, the clarinet didn't survive Bagel Ball. We had to tape it back together using duct tape," replied Jean.  
  
The rest of the sectional was pretty uneventful. Jacob drove home to his odd house. It was then he noticed something wrong.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
Chris Cheng woke up from his slumber. He shakily got up and looked around. He strained to focus his eyes. He felt different, somehow. Something wasn't right. He started hearing things, strange things about what people felt and thought. His mind raced through countless landscapes of places he had never been and sights he had never seen. He stumbled across the room and tried to make his way downstairs.  
  
"Chris Cheng, where have you been?" questioned his mother as he tumbled down the stairs. "It's nine o' clock and you haven't even eaten dinner yet."  
  
"Ugh," came the reply in a soft moan.  
  
"Chris, what's wrong? You look horrible. You're acting as though you are drunk. Oh no. Have you been drinking? Answer me, have you been drinking?" shouted his mother, unknowingly. "You look like it. You are barely able to stand! How much did you drink? Since when did you start this? I knew those friend's of yours were no good."  
  
"No...no..."  
  
"What? How dare you tell me no. Do you think I am stupid? I know what you have been doing, Chris, don't you try to fool me. Drinking, of all the things. Look at me. Look at me!"  
  
"No...I...no..."  
  
"I tried to warn you. I tried to raise you right, but this is how I am repaid. With a worthless drunkard for a son"  
  
Chris Cheng's mother slapped him hard across the face.  
  
"Mom...I...please..."  
  
"What? Shut up, just shut up," replied Chris's mother as she began another slap.  
  
"NO!"  
  
Chris's hand caught his mother in the air. In a split second, Chris's hand sporadically released shock waves as it wrinkled and became cold. His hand vibrated intensely and his whole body experienced convulsions. A spectrum of light escaped his eyes and filled the room. A second later, his mother flew across the room, hitting the fireplace entrance.  
  
"No...no..." started Chris, obviously frightened.  
  
He stumbled to the phone and called 911. Minutes later, ambulances came and took Chris's mother away. They police escorted Chris into a car.  
  
"My mother..." asked Chris, as he watched the bloodied body be escorted away.  
  
"Don't you worry, your mother will be fine," lied the policeman.  
  
Chris Cheng's mother was dead. 


End file.
